


remember me as i was.

by blue like winter (bleucommelhiver)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Galahd, Galahdan Culture & Traditions, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV (2016), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleucommelhiver/pseuds/blue%20like%20winter
Summary: The day of Crowe’s wake is suffocating in its ordinariness. The sky is startlingly blue and the sun hangs high above the bulbous clouds. A perfectly ordinary day if it were not the day Nyx was to stare Crowe dead in her face and apologize. Sorry I was a shitty friend, sorry I was a lousy big brother, sorry I wasn’t there, sorry it wasn’tme.There's not much they can do for her in death, but at the very least, they can honor her in the way of their people.





	remember me as i was.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smgmcrznana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smgmcrznana/gifts).



> I had a bit of a hard time writing this because Crowe's death meant a lot to me, I desperately wanted to do it justice. I took a few liberties from the original prompt to fit what I thought would be more in line with canon - I hope you don't mind! And I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

 

_I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,_  
_My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping,_  
_But I shall stay alive, because above all things_  
_You wanted me indomitable._

_\- P. Neruda_

 

* * *

 

The day of Crowe’s wake is suffocating in its ordinariness. The sky is startlingly blue and the sun hangs high above the bulbous clouds. A perfectly ordinary day if it were not the day Nyx was to stare Crowe dead in her face and apologize. Sorry I was a shitty friend, sorry I was a lousy big brother, sorry I wasn’t there, sorry it wasn’t  _me_.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

He wants to cry but the tears won't come.

It feels like déjà vu.

And suddenly, he’s no longer standing in a stuffy suit in unseasonably warm May weather. He’s back in Galahd and the sun is beating down his neck, cotton shirt completely soaked with perspiration. He’s a boy again. A boy of twenty and one, and he’s just killed his little sister.

Mother tells him he’s being ridiculous. Libertus tells him it’s not his fault.

But he was there. It was his actions, his series of conscious actions and inactions that led to her death. He might as well have been the one pulling the trigger, depositing rounds of bullets into her body until she was more metal than flesh.

_Just like Crowe_.

You wouldn’t be able to tell with the way they doused her in chemicals and painted her face, the unnatural customs of a country he no longer knows why he’s fighting for. No, no one but him, Libertus, Drautos and the coroner knew that her body was riddled with shards from the hollow points that exploded in her chest and ripped through her organs. Nobody but them knew Crowe spent her last moments withering, crying — she _never_ cries — in agony until she finally passed from blood loss and shock.

The black streaks of mascara that stained her face when they found her dumped by the roadside like garbage are washed away and in its place, a disgustingly bright shade of pink blush rests on her cheeks. Dolled up and put on display for all to see like some kind of freak show.

Nyx unclenches his fists when he feels the sting of skin breaking and blood dampening his hands. She didn’t deserve this. Crowe of all people, so full of life, so full of wants, so full of hope. She didn’t deserve this.

It takes the shrill feedback of the mic as the priest announces the formal viewing is over for Nyx tear his eyes from her corpse. He startles as if waking from a dream and numbly follows the crowd into the next room. He exhales, the air no longer a cloying mixture of fully-bloomed magnolias and embalming fluids.

“It’s not my place to say this, but she lived a good life,” Luche says in a feeble attempt at condolence.

Before he’s able to snap back, ‘No, it’s _not_ your place to say shit, Luche,’ Libertus swings his crutch at the man hitting him full on the back.

“Fuck out of here. You don’t know Crowe. You— fuck  _you_ , man. Lived a good life? She died for a country that forsook hers! Died honorably on a standard escort mission, my ass. The whole thing reeks of bullshit. And this fucking farce with the dress and the makeup and the viewing— it’s  _disgusting_. She didn’t deserve to die and she doesn’t deserve this bullshit Lucian death ritual.” He ends his speech red-faced and looks about to hit the man again when Drautos interrupts.

“That’s enough, Libertus. We’re here today to honor her as a glaive, not—”

“Fuck  _you_  too, lapdog,” Libertus spits at his former captain’s boots. “This is what I think of you and the fucking charade that is the Kingsglaive.”

The whole room waits with bated breath for the righteous anger they’ve come to know from their captain, but Drautos looks contrite instead and walks away. Disappointed he’s not getting the fight he’s trying to instigate, Libertus turns to leave.

“Libertus, wait,” Nyx calls at his retreating back, but his best friend doesn’t even stop to acknowledge him.

 

* * *

 

The wake is followed by drinks at the dingy pub next door. ‘To commemorate her life,’ Tredd had said. Nyx knows it's a load of crap. Crowe hated Tredd, and Tredd, well, anyone he couldn’t trick into sucking his dick wasn’t worth a damn. But he desperately needs a drink, and drinking with the team under false pretenses was less pathetic than getting shitfaced in the loneliness of his apartment.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks as he knocks back his fifth shot, ignoring Pelna’s worried stare. He hasn’t died yet, and he’d be damned if alcohol is what would do him in.

_Fuck it all to hell_.

 

* * *

 

Nyx wakes to the sound of flesh banging so loudly against metal he can feel it in the small of his temples. He tries to get up, but groans and collapses back onto the floor. Last night was a blur and he doesn’t remember how he ended up home, but judging by the number of bottles scattered around his body the drinking didn’t end at the pub.

Fuck, his head hurt. He desperately needs the banging to fucking stop.

“Nyx! Open the damn door! I know you’re in there.”

“Hold up, Libs. ‘M coming,” he slur-shouts as he successfully stands only to stop midway to gag at the abrupt motion.

By the time he’s opened the door he’s wishing the ground would just swallow him whole, it’d be less painful than nursing a hangover and dealing with his all too loud friend.

“You reek. Control the liquor, will ya,  _hero_?”

“Shut up Libs, you’ve got your vices,” Nyx imitates the motion of popping pills, “and I have mine. Obviously, we both have extremely healthy coping mechanisms.”

Libertus snorts and sits down on the only clean chair opposite to Nyx. Now that the throbbing’s dulled to an ache, he’s finally able to  _see_  Libertus: eyes bloodshot, skin pallid, and face gaunt. He looks like a ghost of himself.

“Have you eaten? I’ll make us some breakfast.”

“It’s 3:00 PM.”

“Shit,” he runs his hand down his face, he’s missed the brief for the signing party he was covering tonight. Whatever, it was probably just a rehash of standard protocols. He’d catch up later. This was more pressing.

The throbbing in his temple is still there, and Nyx really doesn’t want to have this conversation, but he’s convinced if he puts it off, mild substance abuse would be the least of Libertus’ problems.

“So you, uh, serious about what you said? Quitting the glaive?”

“They bartered off our home like it was nothing, Nyx.”

“There has to be a reason. King Regis wouldn’t just—”

“King Regis this, King Regis that. Save it for someone who’ll listen,  _hero_. My mind’s made up. ‘Sides, I’m not here to talk about that. It’s…” he hesitates, “Do you know what they do with dead glaives?” 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Put on display and then burned en masse like trash?”

“Libs…”

“Yeah, yeah, overpopulation, limited amount of lands within the walls yadda, yadda, but you don’t see them doing  _that_  to royalty, do you? They clear forests and move mountains to build their great, big tombs and their great, big monuments and what do _we_  get? The ones actually fighting their goddamned war? We get paraded like dolls and then thrown out the moment we’re no longer useful. That bastard Tredd was right; we’re nothing more than sewer rats to them.”

Nyx is silent. He understands the anger, hell, he is fucking livid with the way they defiled her body with their face paints and chemicals. Death is the time when humans can finally give back to the land, or so his people believed. The dead should be buried as they are, no chemicals, no preservatives. Why desecrate a body so that it may not return to earth? Why should the reality of death be camouflaged with paint and sutures?

There is no shame in death.

She should’ve been buried as she was.

As Crowe, not some dolled up mannequin with too much makeup and all too perfect hair dressed in clothing she would never be caught wearing. And it hurt. It hurt him to know that they’d keep her body in some basement storage freezer until there were enough bodies to burn together.

“No, it didn’t sit right with me either. She deserved better. A proper funeral.”

“ _Let’s_  give her one then.”

“What are we going to do? Steal her body?”

Libertus gives him a pointed look.

“ _No_.”

“We owe it to her. We were the ones that dragged her into this mess. She never would’ve joined the glaive if—” Libertus chokes on his words and for a panicked second Nyx thought he was going to cry.

“Libertus…”

“Please, Nyx. I need this too. I can’t live with myself knowing— knowing I did nothing for her while she was alive and nothing for her in death.”

It’s a stupid idea. It’s a fucking dumb idea. If they’re caught they’d be…they’d be… they'd be what?

_Fuck it._

“I’ll call in some favors.”

_Fuck it all to hell._

His shoulders sag with relief. “Thanks, I owe you. Big time.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I’m not doing this for you, but you can repay your other debts by keeping yourself out of trouble,” Nyx says with a wry smile. “Don’t wanna have to bury two friends.”

Libertus looks up, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

“I know you. We’re the same, Libertus. Don't do something I would do.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the dead of night when they drive out of Insomnia in a rickety pickup truck with a suspiciously large crate. Inside is Crowe’s body unceremoniously stuffed under hay and plywood. It’s not exactly the most uplifting scene, but to them, it feels like a win. For a moment, Nyx and Libertus feel twenty years younger, like children stealing off into the night for mischief.

Mischief it wasn’t, but highly illegal it was. They’re lucky Nyx’s altruism (or more accurately, lack of self-perseverance) has many under the employ of the King owing him. And for once, Nyx bears the moniker of ‘Hero’ with a semblance of pride, though fleeting.

The gatekeeper at the North Gate takes one look at Nyx before waving them through without inspecting departure docs or their questionable cargo. Counting their blessings, they continue northeast for three hours. The drive is long and silent, punctuated only by the occasional shifting of creaky gears. By the time they reach their destination the sun has begun to rise.

They are as close as they can get to the easternmost part of continental Lucis; white cliffs along the shoreline and nothing but jagged rocks against saltwater below. If one squinted, one could almost see the shadows the Galahdan archipelagos cast upon the aquamarine water in the distance.

“Guess this is as close as we’ll ever get to home. Unless you think you can throw your knife far enough to warp all three of us there.”

Nyx snorts, “Maybe in another lifetime I can also be King of Lucis.”

Libertus guffaws, deep and loud. It’s the first genuine smile Nyx has seen on his face since Crowe’s death. It hits him hard how much he misses his friends, the three of them with their shitty fucking pranks and dumbass jokes, and how nothing will ever be the same again. He doesn’t quite know what he’d do if he lost Libertus too.

With a crooked smile, Nyx ribs, “Well, better start digging, peasant.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Libertus replies with a bow so mockingly deep Nyx almost fears he’ll topple headfirst into the ground.

 

* * *

 

They share stories of her while they dig.

Of how they met little orphan Crowe with eyes so soulful one would get lost in them long enough for her to pickpocket them; of how annoyingly stubborn she could be, especially when it came to matters she deemed important, like which day was best for drinking and which Malboro-kun was cutest; of how that one time she wiped the floor with poor new-recruit-Pelna’s face and left him sporting a black eye for a week; but mostly they shared stories of her kindness. Always one to speak up, but never to hurt. Always one to tease, but never to bully. Crowe was good, through and through. Abrasive as she could be, she didn’t have a bad bone in her body.

By the time they are done, their faces are wet with sweat. It feels good to do this for her. She was,  _is_ , family and this, this is what Galahdans do for family. No showboating, no fancy transient coffin in a gilded parlor. Just humans and the earth they’re born from, the way it was meant to be.

Lifting her body gently from the crate, Libertus takes the time to gently wipe off the makeup and wash her face with water. Nyx covers her with her favorite leather jacket before wrapping her in the hand-woven blankets of their people, leaving just her face exposed. They’re covered in dirt and the whole affair of getting her down the hole without any equipment is messy, but somehow they manage.

Encased in cotton and laid in her final resting place, Nyx thinks sadly, and maybe a little morbidly, that she looks so much like she’s just taking a nap that maybe she’ll wake a few hours later to dig herself out.

With just a nod, they carry out the burial rites. Nyx lights incense with shaky hands and chants a prayer that’s become foreign on his tongue while Libertus places a coin, for safe passage to the afterlife, on her lips, a bundle of sage, to ward off daemons, beneath her ear, and a necklace, he had hoped to give her, tucked against her collar. He steals a quick glance at Nyx, thankful that he is distracted. It’s not something he wants to explain. It’s not even something he’d think he’d be able to explain.

As the prayer comes to an end they wordlessly start filling the hole. It is hard, but it is cathartic. Nyx knows he stinks of sweat, but between that and the smell of wet peat moss and sweet incense, it’s comforting and reminds him of the crowded summer worships in Galahd.

“Well, I guess this is it.”

“Not yet,” Libertus tries to say, but his voice cracks and the dam breaks. His body shudders from the ferocity of it all and he screams into the ground between sobs, back curled and hutched, fisting the dirt of her grave as his tears mix into earth. To Nyx he sounds like a wounded animal. He rests his hand on Libertus’ shoulder, letting him cry until there is nothing left but the whistle of trees and the waves below them.

They stay like that for what seems like hours, but finally, in the lull of sniffles and hiccups, Libertus pulls a wad of tissues from his pockets. Gently unfurling it, he reveals the seeds from Galahd he had stolen over.

“Never thought I’d actually have to use these…” he says as he plants the seeds over her. “This way Crowe will live, even after we’re dead and forgotten.”

A life that arises from the ruins of death, as the Galahdan saying goes. Nyx thinks he likes the sound of that. It’ll be a tall fir one day, strong and proud like she was.

He glances at Libertus, tear-stained but somehow looking lighter, then takes one final look into the distance. Turquoise sea roils beneath him and emeralds he knows as home sparkles in front.

A gull’s call carries his gaze up.

The sky is electric blue with the sun flung high above fragile wisps of clouds. The sea breeze is cold upon his skin and the crash of waves sharp in his ears.

With a smile, he thinks, the ordinariness of the day is beautiful.

 

 


End file.
